


Anxiety

by bluemadridista



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Depression, Developing Relationship, Euro 2012, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Paranoia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:58:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemadridista/pseuds/bluemadridista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: I own nothing - not even the idea really. The plot came from a lovely girl on Tumblr. I just put her idea into words. :)<br/>Hope you enjoy the fic. I'd really love to see your comments on it. Thanks, Lovelies! xx</p>
    </blockquote>





	Anxiety

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing - not even the idea really. The plot came from a lovely girl on Tumblr. I just put her idea into words. :)  
> Hope you enjoy the fic. I'd really love to see your comments on it. Thanks, Lovelies! xx

The worst feeling for a footballer is feeling useless to his team. Since David Villa had broken his leg, he had been feeling more than useless. He had missed some of his club’s most important matches. He had missed the most important match of the season. His team had to face Chelsea in the Champion’s League Semi-Final without him. They lost their chances to secure the Champion’s League Cup, because of him (or at least that was the way he saw it.) While most of the world was having a go at Valdes for letting Torres slip past him, Villa was at home, watching and cursing himself for not being there to score some for his side.

When all was said and done for his club, Villa sought redemption in the coming European Championships. His doctor seemed optimistic that he might make a return in the summer to play with his country. It wasn’t the same as playing for his club, because Xavi was captain at his club. Villa had been dying for Xavi’s acceptance even before his injury, but Xavi could be so moody that it was hard to get through to him. Being sidelined with this injury had only made things worse. Villa could only imagine the things Xavi thought about, the things he said about him to the other players in the locker room.

Even if Xavi wouldn’t be his captain, competing with his National Team meant that Xavi would still be there, competing by his side. He would see every effort he put forth, every goal he (hopefully) scored. Villa kicked himself into overdrive. He worked harder than he ever had before in therapy. He did more work on his own at home. He wanted, no _needed_ , to get back in the game. He _needed_ to play with his country, with his Barca teammates that would be there. He _needed_ to feel useful and wanted, needed again.

A few days before the deadline to make the National Squad, Villa went to see his doctor. His heart swelled with hope. He felt better than he had in months. He was dressed in fresh, sharp clothing, had gotten his hair trimmed and styled in its usual perfectly spiked do, and shaved away all, but his signature soul patch. He felt amazing as walked into the doctor’s office.

“So, Doc, give it to me straight,” he said, slapping his hands down on his thighs. He shot the doctor a bright, wide smile.

When the doctor’s face fell, Villa’s beautiful smile slowly fell with it. “I’m sorry” was all the doctor had to say for Villa to know what was coming next. As it happened, Villa’s extra work had done more to hinder his healing than to help it. He had put too much strain on his still injured leg.

Villa was trembling with anger when he left the doctor’s office. He was angry at the doctor, himself, the universe. He slumped into the back seat of the car he had hired to escort him to the doctor’s office and demanded that the driver raise the partition. The back seat was a soundproof fortress with the partition raised. Villa let out his anger and frustration, screaming as loudly as he could and giving the leather seat a few pounds. It wasn’t entirely mature, but it made him feel a little better.

When his phone rang and the ID read, “Xavi,” any good feeling he had oozed out of him. How would he tell his captain, his friend, his… Villa shook his head at the thought that Xavi could ever be more than his friend. Xavi was one of the best footballers in the world. He was fit and strong, a leader. What would he want with a pitiful loser that couldn’t do anything, but injure himself even more? He was lucky he could still call Xavi a friend. Villa's chest ached at the thought that maybe he wouldn't after this news. Xavi had better, fitter, better players as friends. He didn't need him.

Villa ignored the call and slumped back in the seat as the driver drove away from the doctor’s office. When he arrived home, his wife and children were waiting with a cake. “Felicidades!” They all shouted at one.

Villa took one look at all their smiling faces and his eyes filled with tears. He nudged past his wife and trudged to his trophy room. Seeing all the trophies, award plaques, and photographs depressed him even more. How had he gone from winning the World Cup to barely leaving his house for five months?

He had been in the room for fifteen minutes when Patricia finally entered.  The room was dark, save for the light coming through the window. It wasn’t much with the blinds closed, so Patricia crossed the room and opened the blinds a little. “I’m sorry, David,” she said softly as she approached the loveseat on which her husband was seated. She never understood why he and his friends would come in here and drink their beers together. It wasn’t a very big room, but she guessed being around all their trophies made them feel good. She had never complained when he locked himself in the room, especially not during these troublesome five months.

David was staring at a framed photograph of him with Xavi taken after his goal won Spain the World Cup Semi-final. He remembered that day like it was yesterday. Xavi had showered so many compliments on him. He had told him he was _so proud_ of him. It had been a long time since Xavi had paid him a compliment, and even longer since he’d said he was proud of him.

Patricia sat down next to her husband, but not too close. “I thought sure you’d come home with good news,” she continued in her apologetic voice. She knew it was probably foolish on her part to have such faith in something that her husband really had no control over. He had done so much the past few weeks though, and she was sure a cake and a celebration would be in order. She cut a couple of slices of the cake and let the kids eat, but she tossed the rest in the bin. She wouldn’t want David to see it again.

David didn’t take his eyes off the photograph in his hands when he spoke to his wife. “Well, I didn’t,” he grumbled. “Turns out I’m in worse shape than I was before.”

“How is tha--?”

“I did too much,” Villa interjected gruffly. “I overworked my leg.” Villa squeezed the photo frame tighter.

Patricia glanced down when movement of her husband’s hands caught her eye. She knew about her husband’s _feelings_. She was fine with it as long as it wasn’t in her face. She cleared her throat and stood up from the couch. “Did you call him?”

“I’m going to call Del Bosque first,” Villa said. He still didn’t look at his wife. He couldn’t look at her while she was talking about Xavi. He knew that she was aware of the feelings he’d had for Xavi and Silva, but he always felt uncomfortable when she reminded him of that fact.

“I’ll leave you alone then,” Patricia said, crossing to the door. “But you might want to pull yourself together for the kids, David.”                                                                                   

Villa pulled himself together enough to phone Del Bosque, but after he just stared at Xavi’s name in his contact list for five minutes before he tossed his phone across the room. He knew he wasn’t going to be capable of pulling himself together for the kids the way Patricia wanted him to. He couldn’t pull himself together for anyone.

\-----------------------------------------------

Over the next few days, Xavid didn’t call anyone else. He didn’t leave his house. He barely left the couch in his living room. His days were filled with boring television he barely paid attention to. His nights were a blur of tequila bottles.

On the Seleccion deadline day, Villa awoke with what had become the norm: a blinding headache, sand paper tongue, and a throat as dry as the desert. His phone was ringing, but it sounded far away, maybe in a tunnel. When he finally opened his eyes, he found that his phone was sitting on his chest. His head was in the tunnel, not it.

The phone stopped ringing and Villa hauled himself up into a seated position. The phone slid down his chest and bounced onto the carpeted floor next to an empty tequila bottle. Villa glanced down at it and rubbed his burning eyes. His head throbbed.

When his phone started to ring again, it seemed to focus all Villa’s sentences. He was suddenly acutely aware of every sound around him: birds chirping outside the (thankfully shaded) window, his daughters laughing while they played in their room down the hall, and his wife running the vacuum in the family room.

His phone stopped ringing again. Villa left it sitting on the floor and reached for the pain pills on the coffee table. He would usually take one or two for his aches and pains, but he popped three into his mouth and stumbled to the bar. He filled a tumbler with a little water and swallowed the pills down his dry throat. He refilled the tumbler a second and third time and gulped it down.

When his phone started to ring a third time, Villa swore and crossed the room to retrieve it from the floor. He sighed when he read the ID. Xavi was calling. He tossed the still-ringing phone onto the couch and trudged to the adjoining bathroom to relieve himself. Xavi was calling again when Villa once again took his place on the couch.

He groaned and answered the call. He knew he would have to tell Xavi sooner or later. He might as well get it over with now. “Yeah,” he grumbled. His voice sounded even worse than he thought. He moved the phone away from his face and cleared his throat.

“David?” Xavi was saying when he placed the phone to his ear again.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Del Bosque released the call-up list to everyone today. You’re not on it.”

“Did you just call me to tell me what I already know?” Villa grumbled.

“No,” Xavi snapped. “I called, because you never bothered to call and tell me what’s going on.”

Villa frowned. He wasn’t sure Xavi really cared. It had been weeks since he spoke to Xavi. Why hadn’t Xavi been bothered to call before? Villa sighed and slumped back on the couch. It took only a few minutes to explain everything to Xavi. “So, basically, I won’t be back until next season… if I’m lucky.”

Xavi was uncharacteristically silent. Villa pulled the phone away from his ear to verify that the call hadn’t been dropped. A moment after he put the phone to his ear again, Xavi said, “I’m sorry about that. I gotta go now. Talk later.”

Xavi ended the call before Villa had a chance to say anything. Villa’s face fell. His assumptions were correct. Xavi didn’t really care. He probably thought he was as useless as Villa felt. He probably hung up, so he could get together with Messi or someone to talk about how worthless Villa was. Villa turned his phone off and curled back up to sleep until noon.

Xavi stared at his phone through blurry, tear-filled eyes. He had cried when Villa first told him the extent of his injures and he was crying again. He had thought surely they would have a reunion at the Euros. He missed Villa so much. He hadn’t seen him in months and Villa never bothered to call him. Xavi knew that he was just a friend and captain to Villa, and that his family came first, but he still hoped for a phone call once in a while.

 

Villa fell into a deep sleep only moments after turning his phone off. He immediately began to have one nightmare after the other. All of his waking fears were realized by his subconscious. Xavi was with Messi talking about how much better Messi was for the team than Villa ever was. Then he was with the rest of the squad, discussing how they couldn’t wait to sell him off to any team that would take him.

_“What team would want him though?” Xavi asked the crowd of his teammates._

_“None!” Messi said, cackling._

_Xavi’s head tipped back and his chest heaved with loud, raucous laughter. The rest of team joined in, howling with laughter at Villa’s expense._

Villa woke with a jolt. His head was pounding. His eyes were stinging with tears he didn’t know he had cried. He could still hear the echoes of the team’s laughter. He rolled on his side and curled up, begging his mind to shut off, so he could sleep again.

\-----------------------------------------------

After a week, Villa’s wife finally forced him to get out of the house and back at his therapy. He went only when she threatened to leave him and take the girls. She cleared all the alcohol out of the house while he was gone, but his days were no more productive. He went to therapy in the morning, came back home in the evening, and fell asleep in front of the television. His sleep was filled with dreams that were increasingly more like nightmares with each night that passed.

Each dream had various characters, but Xavi always seemed to be the star. He would always talk behind Villa’s back, tell anyone and everyone they were better than Villa, and even shout directly at Villa. Villa was forced to watch as Xavi appeared to be behind a video camera, shouting directly into the lens, directly at Villa. He would list Villa’s every fault, every way that he hated him, every single little thing that made him pathetic and useless, how he had failed him as a Barca player, failed his country as a member of the National Team, failed his family, failed everyone. After Villa fought hard against his subconscious, he would finally awaken from the nightmare. He always awoke from these most disturbing dreams covered in sweat with tears in his eyes.

As time wore on, as Villa sat at home and watched match after match of the National Team winning, the nightmares got worse and worse. By the time Spain was in the quarterfinals, Villa felt like he was going mad. He looked so haggard that his girls barely talked to him. His skin had a sick pallor from not having seen the sun much in months, his eyes had dark bags beneath them, and he’d let his facial hair get out of control. He barely slept at night, because of the terrible nightmares and they haunted him even when he was awake. Every time he saw Xavi on television on the pitch or in an interview, his mind conjured scenes from the many nightmares he’d suffered.

After the semi-final, Villa was beyond depressed. He couldn’t even feel very happy for his team. He knew something had to change. He couldn’t go on like that for much longer, but he had no idea how to help himself and Patricia had given up trying. She had stayed with her sister for several weeks.

An hour after he had switched off the television from watching the semi-final, he was sitting on the couch (still), sipping from a tumbler filled with Scotch. It was his first drink of the night, and his still clear brain was racing. He was desperate to find some way to fix the mess he had created. No idea that came to him ever seemed possible. His depression bulldozed over them, convincing him that they were doomed to fail no matter what he did.

When he tried to think he could do it, he could be better for Xavi, his mind played the nightmare images back like a cinema reel. Xavi thought he was worthless. All of his teammates did. He hadn’t heard from a single one of them in months. Not even Silva. He thought Silva would always love him. They had been together for so long when they were at Valencia together. Villa knew Silva had moved on romantically. He had been involved with his goalkeeper for over a year, but Villa had no idea that would change their friendship. Silva must have thought he was as worthless as everyone else did. Xavi probably convinced him.

A tear rolled down Villa’s cheek and he could feel more coming on. He was just about to give into them and sob like the pathetic mess he thought he was when his phone rang. He gasped and jumped a little. The ringtone seemed deafening loud in the silence of the empty house. He grabbed the phone from the table. The ID showed a picture of Silva. Villa eyes widened. He sniffed and swiped his thumb across the screen to accept the call.

“Silvi?” He answered.

“Villa!” Silva shouted.

Villa grimaced and pulled the phone away from his ear. He glared at it before he returned it to his ear and said, “No shouting, Silva. Where are you?” Villa detected loud music in the background. The lyrics were in a foreign language, but it seemed to be some sort of hip-hop song.

Silva was silent for a few moments. Villa assumed that he was walking, because the loud music began to fade away. “Sorry, Villa,” Silva finally said. “I’m at some club. We’re celebrating the win! Did you see us? Did you see Cesky’s pen? He was so happy! He almost kissed Iker on live TV!”

Villa had to crack a smile at that. The Spain and Real Madrid captain would have killed the small Catalan if he’d outed them at the Euros. “I saw you guys,” he finally said. “Good job out there.”

Villa could almost hear the frown in Silva’s voice when he spoke again. “I miss you,” he said quietly. Villa could barely hear him, but his voice was loud enough to give away his sadness. “It’s not the same playing without you. It never is.”

Tears burned Villa’s eyes and spilled over onto his cheeks. “I miss you too, Silvi.”

“Will you come to the final, Villa? Please, will you come?”

Villa bit his lip. He knew he would be expected to go, but he had planned to make up some excuse to skip it. It was a cowardly, pathetic thing to do, but his depression had convinced him it was the right course of action.

“Please. We all miss you.”

Villa gritted his teeth. He knew Silva was lying now. Everyone looked happy enough without him. No one missed him. He wasn’t even sure now if Silva genuinely did. “I’ll see if I can,” he grumbled.

“Villa…” Silva sniffed.

The sound hit Villa like a shot to the heart. He had never been able to take Silva when he was crying. He just couldn’t stand to see him that sad. He might not have been able to see these particular tears in his eyes, running down his cheeks, but he had enough memories of crying Silva to fill his mind. He knew what Silva looked like in that moment – big, chocolate brown eyes shimmering with tears, perfect mouth turned down in a pout, cheeks pink and moist.

“I’ll be there,” Villa said against his own depressed judgment.

\--------------------------------------------

Villa purposefully showed up late in Kiev. His plane landed just an hour before the final we set to start. He might have looked better – hair coiffed, facial trimmed perfectly – but he was far from better. Depression and anxiety were still eating away at him. He didn’t want to face anyone just said. By the time he arrived at Olympic Stadium, his team was corralled in the tunnel waiting to walk onto the pitch. A small voice (that sounded a little like Xavi) in the back of his mind told him he was selfish, and he agreed with it.

“Why didn’t you come back there?” Carles asked when he plopped into the vacant seat next to Villa.

“Back where?” Villa asked dumbly.

“Back to the locker room, the tunnel? The guys asked about you. They thought maybe we flew in together last night.”

Villa shook his head. “I had to do some stuff yesterday.” Lie. “I just got in today.”

Carles nodded. He had a big smile on his face. Wasn’t he just a ball of injured joy? No one hated him for being injured. He was their big, bad defender. They’d be oh-so-happy to get him back.

Villa looked away from him, happy when the teams started to take the pitch. “Silva asked about you,” Carles said.

Villa mumbled something unintelligible and nodded. His eyes were on Xavi as he walked onto the pitch. When Xavi glanced up, Villa looked away, staring down at his legs. The smile Xavi had wanted to show him fell to a frown. Xavi lowered his eyes to the pitch.

Villa had convinced himself that nothing would make him happy again. Nothing would make him want to celebrate. However, as soon as Mata sank the last shot of the match, Villa jumped up and hugged Carles, screaming and shouting for his teammates. Momentarily, his depression was forgotten. He was happy, happy for his team, his country, his friends.

After the on-pitch celebration, the team retired to the locker room, and Carles dragged Villa down there. Silva was fresh out of the shower when he spotted Villa cowering by the locker room doors. “Villa!” He shouted, racing toward him, holding his towel, so it wouldn’t come untied. He nearly tripped up and slipped, because his feet were wet. Villa reached out to save him. “Whoa there,” he said, pulling his small friend up. “Be careful, Silva.”

“Sorry,” Silva gasped. “I’m just so happy to see you! Did you see me, Villa? Did you see me score? Did you see me? I looked at you. I blew you a kiss!”

Villa smiled and chuckled at his best friend. “I saw you, Baby,” he said, kissing Silva’s cheeks. “Thank you. You were great out there.”

Silva beamed. “Thanks, Villa! Joe said the same thing when he called. He couldn’t be here, because it would look funny, you know? He called though before I got a shower.”

Villa’s smile faded a little and he nodded. “That’s great,” he said all for Silva’s benefit, not because he really meant it. He was happy for Silva and he didn’t want him back. He wanted Xavi. But he was too depressed to be really happy for anyone, or to want to hear about anyone’s happy relationship. Villa spotted Xavi walking over. His hair was wet from the shower, but he was fully dressed unlike Silva. “Why don’t you go get dressed? We’ll talk more after. I’ll wait outside.”

“Villa!” Xavi called as Villa disappeared into the hallway.

Villa ignored him and rushed up the empty hallway. He had no idea where he was heading, but he wanted to get away from Xavi. He couldn’t face him. He didn’t want to hear any of the horrible things he might say to him.

“Villa! Stop!” Xavi’s voice was punctuated with anger.

“No!” Villa shouted back. He scolded himself for sounding like a child.

“Villa!” Xavi raced up behind him and grabbed his arm. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He demanded.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure you’ll be glad to tell me,” Villa muttered.

Xavi glared at him and gritted his teeth. “You’re an asshole, you know that,” he spat. “I’m sick of your shit. I called you twenty times yesterday to ask when you’d be getting in and you couldn’t be bothered to answer a single call. You didn’t come to the locker room to say a damn thing before the match and now you just walk away from me like a dick. What the fuck, Villa?”

“Just go away, Xavi. I don’t need to hear this. I know you hate me. I don’t care. I can’t deal with this.” Villa shrugged off Xavi’s hand and started to walk away.

Xavi grabbed him again, squeezing his bicep this time. “Hate you? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on. You hate me now. You think I’m pathetic, don’t you? I can’t play anymore. I don’t even know when I’ll be able to play again. I’m useless.”

“I never said that!” Xavi snapped. “I never said any of that. Who told you that? That was Messi. He said some shit and I told him if he didn’t shut the fuck up, I’d punch him so hard he wouldn’t be able to say anything for a while.” Villa stared wide-eyed at Xavi. “Did he tell you I said something? Villa?” Xavi grabbed Villa’s face – one hand on either cheek – and stared into his eyes.

Villa shook his head as best he could with Xavi hold his face. “I just, I thought, because… you give the guys a hard time sometimes in the locker room. You make comments about everyone and, I just, I mean… I thought since I’m out like this, I could only imagine all the things you’d have to say about me.”

Xavi’s eyes widened for a moment and then returned to normal size. He let out a deep sigh. “No, David. I… sometimes, my mouth gets out of hand. I say things I don’t mean. I say things I shouldn’t. I judge other players, but… I would never do that to you, especially not about this. This isn’t your fault. Damn, Villa, don’t you know how worried I was about you when you got injured? I was so scared for you. When you told me how bad it was, I… I thought I’d never get to play with you again. And, you wouldn’t talk to me. You wouldn’t see me. I came to the house and Patricia said…”

“You came to the house?!” Villa practically shouted.

Xavi nodded. “Twice. Patricia said you were in no shape to have visitors.”

Villa’s eyes filled with tears and he stared down at the ground. If he would have seen Xavi then things might have been so much different. Xavi could have told him then what he was telling him now. He could have told him…

“I love you, Villa. I…”

Villa’s head snapped up. “You, what?”

Xavi stared down at the ground. He never felt vulnerable or self-conscious, but the way Villa looked at him, the bewildered look in his eyes made him feel like a boy again. He feared rejection, but he feared acceptance too. If Villa accepted him and loved him back, what would people say? What would he do? What would _they_ do? Villa was married and he had kids. He wouldn’t leave that for Xavi. He could never…

“I love you too,” Villa whispered.

Xavi looked up slowly. “Villa, no… I…”

“No?” Villa’s eyes were filled with so much hurt that Xavi’s heart felt like it was caught in a vice. “You… you don’t love me?” Villa whimpered.

“No, I do. I… I just… it’s not like you love me,” Xavi said. He was sure of that. He knew Villa had loved a man before. He had loved Silva right in front of his face for years. He had to watch their love grow during national duty. But surely, he wouldn’t love Xavi that way. He couldn’t. “I… I mean, I love you like you loved Silva, and I…”

“I love you… well, I mean, I love you, Xavi.” Villa grabbed Xavi’s face and pulled him forward. All of the fear and anxiety rushed away when he pressed his lips to Xavi’s. He knew it had all been some sick thing his depressed imagination had conjured up. Xavi didn’t hate him and neither did anyone else. Well… maybe Messi, but he didn’t really care about him anyway.

Xavi walked forward, forcing David to walk backward while they stayed connected, kissing sloppily. Villa grunted when his back hit the concrete wall of the stadium. Xavi pressed against him and kissed him harder. He had been waiting damn long enough to kiss Villa. He wasn’t worried about being careful or slow.

Xavi didn’t pull away until Villa shoved him away. “Sorry,” he panted. “I need a breath.” Villa hung his head and gasped for air.

Xavi took a few deep breaths and then clamped his mouth on the side of Villa’s neck. Villa groaned and squeezed Xavi’s shoulders. “Xav, let’s get out of here. Can you leave?”

Xavi pulled away, nodding. “Let’s go to my hotel. We can celebrate properly.”

Villa stopped Xavi from pulling away completely. “Thank you, Xavi. Thanks for not giving up on me.”

Xavi grabbed Villa’s face again, gentler than the previous time. “I would never give up on you. You’re gonna be fine, mi amor. You’re going to be great. You’ll be my star again before you know it.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> All of this is untrue, to my knowledge. I’m sure Villa was upset about not being able to play for so long, but I’m not saying I think he would act this way at all. His attitude is merely to create drama in this fictional world. I love and respect Villa, so please don’t attack me for writing him this way.


End file.
